


Mirage

by queuebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blanket Fic, Desert, Embedded Images, Gentleness, Getting Together, Huddling For Warmth, Inception Big Bang 2020, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Road Trips, Sunsets, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird
Summary: “Are you cold?” Eames asks suddenly.Arthur stops in the middle of wrapping blankets around himself. “Are you not?” he says, defensive.“Of course, but--” Eames starts forward and, since the rest of his body is bundled up, cups Arthur’s jaw. Like he’s just put his hand in a goddamn fridge. Arthur stares at him, the muscle in his cheek tensing under Eames’s fingers. “--not like that,” Eames finishes.Arthur closes his eyes when he lets go of his face.“...My body runs cold,” he says.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 103
Collections: Inception Bedsharing Fest, Inception Big Bang 2020





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to fill [Zigster](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/)’s excellent [Bedsharing Fest](https://deinvatiwrites.tumblr.com/post/183688119814/the-madness-begins-is-it-a-hotel-mix-up-is) prompt about Arthur and Eames cuddling while camping in a Utah desert, but it uh...kinda took on a life of its own lol. Enjoy anyway??
> 
> Thanks [lostnoise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnoise) for the beta and the excellent ideas! You’ve made this fic so much better and for that I owe you everything! Thanks [whirl](http://noitsnacktime.tumblr.com/) for being my Big Bang artist (again) and SERIOUSLY knocking it out of the damn park omg, I’ve fallen completely in love with the art you made and I’m so honored it’s attached to my little road trip fic!! ily!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189535985@N04/50173796992/in/dateposted-public/)

It feels like they’ve been on the road forever.

Eames’s eyes have been itchy with desert grit for ages now. He’s rubbed at them so hard that they’ve gotten all tender and swollen and Arthur’s started shooting him dangerous looks.

He stops and stares out the window for a bit. He doesn’t know why he bothers. The view’s been the same for the past eternity--bare ground and shrub and rock, the setting sun flooding everything with orange.

He pokes at the radio halfheartedly; it gives them a variety of static. Then he looks at Arthur.

Arthur is glaring out the windshield like he’s thinking of punching right through it. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. The gash in his cheek looks even worse than before, blood congealed down to his jawline and a redness high on his cheekbone signaling a forthcoming bruise. They should stop and clean up--it might get infected. But Arthur is kind of scaring Eames right now and he isn’t about to question him.

Eames slouches into his seat and tries to nap.

...

“Eames.”

A voice filters through the fog in Eames’s mind. Eames’s neurons put two and two together and conclude Arthur. He snaps awake.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers. It’s almost pitch-black outside, and Eames can barely make out Arthur’s shadowed face in the blinking lights of the dashboard.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Arthur says, a little hoarse, but calm enough. “Could you--drive for a bit?” There’s a pause like Arthur’s about to continue.

When the silence gets awkward, Eames shifts in his seat, more alert now, and goes, “Yeah, ‘course.” He peers at the barren, silent desert around them as his eyes adjust to the night. The moon glares down with her one eye. “Do we...still need to be moving?” he ventures.

“Yes,” Arthur replies, clipped. “They’re still…”

Eames looks at him, waiting, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Who?” Eames asks.

Arthur just shakes his head tiredly. His shoulders are hunched up and there’s a tense shadow at the corner of his mouth.

Eames exhales. “Arthur,” he says gently. “Maybe we should take a break for a bit.” Arthur’s hands are clenched over the wheel like they’re in the middle of a firefight. Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s wrist and rubs there. Jesus, Arthur’s cold as fucking ice. “We can rest up and continue tomorrow.”

For a moment Eames is worried Arthur might shake him off and hit the gas until he collapses, but he almost physically deflates under Eames’s palm, wilting into the car seat and losing about ten centimeters of height. _Vulnerable_ is a word Eames would never use to describe him, and yet...

“Fine,” Arthur snaps. Contrary to the end.

...

The fire is a comfort in the night.

They were insulated from it in the residual sunlit warmth of the car, but now that they’ve parked and gotten out, it’s _freezing._

Weren’t deserts supposed to be hot? Eames could’ve sworn that in every movie deserts were baking hot, with scorpions and camels and cacti. There wasn’t supposed to be a white four-by-four parked on the side of the road and a handsome, rumpled man leaned against the hood, dabbing delicately at his cheekbone with a cloth as orange light flickers over his face.

Eames gripes under his breath as he pulls the trunk open, revealing a holdall of rifles and a mass of blankets among scattered survival paraphernalia. He yanks out all of the blankets and piles some over his shoulder before he meanders over to Arthur and tries to figure out how to give him some of the blankets without it meaning anything.

“I can take first watch,” Arthur says. He’s staring out at the horizon, away from the fire, where the black of the earth meets the black of the cosmos. The stars are vast and cold and inescapable. In his right hand, the bloodied cloth sits limp, while his left twitches in his pocket. 

Eames shoves the blankets at Arthur and sort of mumbles agreeably. Arthur accepts them without looking at him.

Eames goes to sit by the fire, hunched in a blanket nest, and fiddles about with his Glock for a bit, trying to stretch his fingers so they don’t freeze in inactivity. Once he’s satisfied that Arthur, settled pensively against the car, won’t snap and run off with all the weapons or something, he crawls into the boot and rolls himself up in three blankets and a spare winter coat.

...

When Eames next opens his eyes, the sky is blushing pale yellow, the horizon glowing in the distance through the windshield. He feels well-rested, which is unusual enough that he’s immediately suspicious.

He rubs his eyes and shoves the trunk door open, only to feel his heart jump in his chest at the sight of a faceless dark shape huddled by the fire. He’s gripped with a sudden terror--that _they’ve_ caught up--but then he wakes up a little more.

“What the fuck?” he asks Arthur. “How long has it been?” 

Arthur glances at him but doesn’t respond, the firelight flickering strangely across his front. He’s wrapped in a mass of blankets, drawn all the way up to his nose. 

Eames slides out of the car, winding the blankets tight around his body as the chill nips at him. “Why didn’t you wake me for my shift?” he demands. 

“You needed the rest,” Arthur says, muffled, staring into the fire like it’s the one talking to him. 

“And _you_ don’t?” 

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He looks paler than normal in this light, which only makes the dried blood on his face look worse, blacker.

“I’m driving,” Eames says.

The look Arthur casts him is withering--Eames is relieved at the familiarity of it. “What, you think I can’t handle driving a car after a night shift?” 

“No, I don’t. And I have the keys, so don’t even try.”

Arthur scoffs, and Eames basks in his disdain.

...

They pass the tiniest town Eames has ever seen around early afternoon, where they take a bit of a break before Arthur insists on driving for the rest of the day. Eames concedes only because he saw Arthur doze off against the car window earlier, the sunlight streaming in setting his skin aglow.

There’s a bit of a snit when the evening comes on little cat feet. First, Eames has to set his foot down again about resting for the night. Then Arthur sets his foot down about taking first watch. Which--

“Absolutely not,” Eames says.

Arthur’s voice comes from the boot of the car. “I’m _fully capable_ of--”

“This isn’t about your _capabilities,”_ Eames says, standing up from where he’s started the fire. “You’re human, too, Arthur, you need a damn rest once in a while.”

“This is stupid,” Arthur says, rounding the car towards Eames with a pile of blankets in his arms. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, so I might as well do something useful.”

Eames rears back, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “I know that you think quite little of me,” he says, “but I can handle watching over us for a couple hours.”

“It’s not because of that,” Arthur begins, then shuts his mouth. His lashes flutter over his cheeks.

He’s so pale, Eames thinks.

“Are you cold?” Eames asks suddenly.

Arthur stops in the middle of wrapping blankets around himself. “Are you not?” he says, defensive.

“Of course, but--” Eames starts forward and, since the rest of his body is bundled up, cups Arthur’s jaw. Like he’s just put his hand in a goddamn fridge. Arthur stares at him, the muscle in his cheek tensing under Eames’s fingers. “--not like that,” Eames finishes.

Arthur closes his eyes when he lets go of his face.

“...My body runs cold,” he says.

Eames accepts his half of the blankets from Arthur and they huddle together by the fire. They have mild conversation that gets slower and slower. Eames watches Arthur’s blinks get longer, his breathing deepen, until he nods off delicately onto Eames’s shoulder.

Eames wraps one of his blankets around them both and watches the fire die down.

…

They don’t talk about it. 

Eames refrains from commenting, but some of the color has returned to Arthur’s cheeks. It helps that the wound--now clean and bandaged--is healing up nicely. Arthur’s in good enough graces to let Eames drive without argument, and he spends the morning flipping through and scribbling in his Moleskine.

Eames is starting to see the beauty of deserts.

…

“I feel like it’s getting colder,” Eames says neutrally.

Arthur doesn’t reply. He’s sprawled across the backseat of the car, fiddling with his laptop. They took a break to eat, and now Eames is settled into the driver’s side, rubbing at his goosebumps in the purplish dusk light. 

“I was just thinking,” he begins. He flicks a glance at the rear-view mirror. Arthur hasn’t moved. He feels encouraged. “It may be easier if we shared some blankets,” he continues. “Warmer, you know.” Pause. “It's quite cold.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but when Eames looks at the rear-view mirror again, Arthur’s face doesn’t show any signs of active hatred.

“Perfect.” Eames sticks the key in and starts the car. “Glad you could see reason.”

But as the night spreads itself over them and the kilometers of desert slip past, Arthur shows no signs of stopping, his face glowing ghostly in the laptop’s light. He’s still working when Eames shuts off the engine for the night, the car quieting beneath them.

Eames sighs internally. “Arthur.”

Arthur ignores him.

_“Arthur.”_

When the keyboard simply clicks in response, Eames reaches into the back seat and closes the laptop over Arthur’s hands.

Arthur’s head snaps up. Like this, he’s just an inky blackness against the speckled-salt stars of the night’s blue. “What?” he says--more alarmed than angry, which is a good sign that he wasn’t doing anything important.

Eames reaches up to flick on the ceiling light, and they both blink in its sudden glare. Then Eames clears his throat. “Let’s sleep, alright?”

Eames feels the weight of Arthur’s gaze on him.

“Okay,” Arthur says.

Eames rounds the car and gets into the boot, shoving over the first aid kit and the weapons to lay out the blankets, Arthur peeking over the back of the seat at him. When Eames knees over to one side of the blankets and pats the spot next to him, Arthur hesitates.

“What are you…”

“Come on,” Eames says. “Hurry up, I’ll freeze.”

“We--” Arthur pauses, conflicted. “Someone has to--”

Eames shrugs. “I’ll stay up a bit and grab you later.”

Arthur’s eyes flash. “I’m not some--”

“Don’t be silly,” Eames says, sharp.

They breathe together for a few moments. The absolute stillness of the desert around them is a quiet like none Eames has known before; he’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to it.

It’s broken by the creak of the car as Arthur crawls over the seat into the trunk. He pauses for a second at the edge of the blankets, perched hesitantly on his haunches, before he pulls on one of the spare coats, slides so far under the blankets that only a dark tuft of hair pokes out the top, and tucks himself against the side of the car.

Eames stares at the curve of Arthur’s shoulder under the blankets, the careful space in between them. Then he reaches up to switch off the ceiling light, and they’re swallowed in darkness.

...

Eames wakes slowly, feeling warm and fuzzy. For one confused moment, his brain thinks _home._

He opens his eyes.

Arthur’s face is pressed into Eames’s chest, hair everywhere, arms around Eames’s middle. 

Eames watches his head move as he breathes. He lifts one hand, very slowly, and gently brushes Arthur’s hair away from his face so he can see his eyelashes, the warm-looking flush over his cheeks, where just the line of his scar remains. Then it seems only natural to keep doing that, over and over, and Eames marvels at the feel of Arthur’s hair between his fingers. It’s gotten a little wavy as the desert days have gone on, and Eames would be lying if he said it didn’t do anything for him.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, dozing and stroking Arthur’s hair, but he can tell when Arthur wakes up (the delicate hitch in his breathing, the twitch under his eyelids, like he’s still too sleepy to open his eyes). He can tell when Arthur pauses and realizes exactly where he is (the tension of his shoulders, the slight curl of his fingers against Eames’s back), and he can tell when Arthur decides to pretend to sleep on.

Eames doesn’t stop stroking Arthur’s hair.

…

The next night, they stop by another tiny desert town, this one with a motel. Arthur doesn’t look at Eames when he asks for a room with one bed, and Eames doesn’t say anything, but the walk to their room feels tense, and Eames’s fingers twitch at his sides.

The door closes behind them.

Arthur takes a couple steps further inside, then stops. Eames stares at the line of Arthur’s back, flexing his fingers. Something in him burns. He wants to…

Arthur turns around, and suddenly his hands are on Eames’s face and they’re kissing, hard and desperate and messy and _god, yes, yes._

Eames makes a noise as he backs into the door--Jesus, Arthur’s lips are intoxicating. His hands come up to grip Arthur’s hair, then he moves them down to Arthur’s shoulders, the small of his back, his hips--he can’t decide, fuck.

He groans when Arthur nips at his lip, then Arthur pulls away and he’s left panting into the space between them.

Arthur tilts their foreheads together. Eames tries to look at him, but the room is dark and their faces are too close together.

“Let’s sleep,” Arthur says, low and rough.

Eames exhales.

When they finally settle into bed, Arthur rolls to face away from Eames.

Eames hesitates, nervous now. He shifts on the bed and touches Arthur’s flank, a question.

There’s a brief moment, frozen in time, where everything is absolutely still, and a fear like ice washes over him. Then Arthur bursts into movement, sliding his body right up against Eames’s and mashing their mouths together. Eames huffs in surprise, and Arthur straddles him, still leaning down to keep kissing him.

“Fuck,” Eames mumbles.

He slides his hand up to cup Arthur’s jaw, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his cheek. He’s so warm, Eames thinks. He’s warm at last.

Arthur makes a noise low in his throat and rolls their bodies together. Eames breaks the kiss to lean his head back against the pillow and groan, and Arthur apparently takes this as permission to roam up to Eames’s ear.

“Can I?” he whispers. He sucks kisses down Eames’s jawline. “Can I?” His hand slips down from Eames’s face to the bulge in Eames’s pants, and he rubs at it, like Eames needs any more convincing.

Eames just nods wordlessly, dazed by the attention. _Yes. Whatever it is, yes. You can do anything to me, Arthur, anything you want._

Arthur makes a pleased little sound and drops his head under the covers.

“Oh,” Eames breathes.

…

The morning dawns, slow and warm and soft, and the sun reaches light fingers through the motel curtains, laying them gently over the covers where their bodies were entwined.

This time, Eames has only just awoken before he feels the echoing stirrings of Arthur in front of him.

When he opens his eyes, Arthur is already looking at him, honeyed eyes blinking sleepily. Their heads are bent close together, their hands laid out in the space between their bodies, like they were telling each other secrets while they slept.

Arthur reaches out and brushes the backs of his fingers against Eames’s cheek. Eames’s eyes flutter shut, involuntary, and he opens them again, a little embarrassed.

Arthur smiles, and Eames feels the whole world turn slowly around them.

...

The car starts shuddering as the next day stages its temporary death, shadows smudging deep blue stains into the sand and shrub. The engine coughs and sputters, and Arthur sighs impatiently as he parks and gets out, Eames following.

“What could possibly be wrong?” Eames says.

Arthur opens the hood and peers in. “It doesn’t _look_ like--jeez, I really can’t see anything.”

“Hold on, I’ll grab a torch.” Eames scrambles into the boot and rummages through the holdall. He comes up empty. “Er.” He switches on the ceiling light and peers under the blankets, then looks through the holdall again. “How do we not have a torch in here?”

“What?” Arthur calls.

Eames shakes his head and crawls into the passenger seat. He rifles through the documents in the glovebox, then opens the center console. Nothing.

As he’s about to close the console, his eyes catch on something small and red. He leans in curiously.

It’s a poker chip.

He picks it up, drawing his eyebrows together as he examines it. He rubs it between his fingers, then flips it across his knuckles.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Sorry?”

Eames climbs out of the car and leans against the arch of the wheel. He watches Arthur fuss with the oil dipstick.

“How long have we been driving?” he asks.

Arthur’s hands freeze for the slightest second before Arthur shrugs and slides the stick back into place. “I dunno,” he says, “I haven’t been keeping track.”

Eames runs his thumb around the edge of the poker chip. “This is a dream,” he says.

Arthur pauses. “Yes.”

Eames blinks at Arthur. “You knew?”

Arthur closes the hood. He doesn’t respond.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Eames asks, worrying at his lower lip. “Are we in danger?”

Arthur’s chin dips down into his chest, towards where he’s fiddling with something in his hands. It’s a twitchy gesture Eames has never seen on him. “No, we’re. We’re alright.”

Eames runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, god. How long have we been here? Something must be--we could’ve--oh, I don’t know.” He stops, bewildered at Arthur’s calm.

“It’s alright,” Arthur mutters. “We’re doing fine. I mean,” his voice gets even lower “I like it here.”

Eames stares at Arthur. He’s nervous, he realizes.

Something goes out of Eames. “Yeah,” he says, surprising himself. “I do, too.”

Arthur looks up. He sets the thing in his hands on the car--a die.

They come across another motel that night, and they fuck again. Eames runs his hands down Arthur’s warm sides, the skin forgiving under his fingers, and watches Arthur in the dim light of the bedside lamp and wonders and marvels.

...

Eames watches his thumb swirl round and round the poker chip in his lap. Then he looks up. “Whose dream are we in?” 

“Does it matter?” Arthur replies.

An answer in itself. Eames tilts his head curiously at Arthur’s profile, then looks at the long road unfolding before them, the endless desert on both sides. He finally notices it, then--in the distance, the road emerging out of the ground, the mountains rumbling into place, everything coming into being as Arthur dreams of them. It’s beautiful.

“Where are we going, exactly?” he thinks to ask.

“Nowhere,” Arthur says. The desert sun sets his smile aglow, makes breathtaking canyons out of his dimples, and his fingers tap the wheel--an upbeat rhythm, like a song.

**Author's Note:**

> [See whirl's art in gif form!](https://noitsnacktime.tumblr.com/post/625172131401089024/i-had-the-absolute-joy-of-working-with-queuebird)
> 
> [tumblr](http://queuebird.tumblr.com/)


End file.
